At the Edge of the Horizon
by soda-rebel
Summary: Arthur works at a normal job, doing normal things, with (sort of) normal people. But then the dreaded town legend decides to buy something from their grocery store and things aren't so normal anymore. My contribution for the ususktwiceperyear event odd professions.


Admittedly, Arthur Kirkland was not an outlandish character. He wasn't even a character, really. He had no right to be. Who would, who even needed, to pay attention to Arthur. He was about as interesting as an overdone oatmeal. And not the good kinds with cinnamon and raisins, the kind that just sits and solidifies in your favorite cereal bowl until it becomes the consistency of paste. Normally, Arthur would be that sickly bowl of oatmeal-paste, boring, motionless, and disappointing. Unfortunately life actually had plans for him, something he wasn't quite prepared for. Today, on the day the sky decided it wanted to sleep just as much as he did, Arthur would be forced to live just a little.

When Arthur opened his eyes (well, more like forced) to the hazy blur of fog for his morning shift, he absolutely knew that this morning would be rough. No, that was a lie. He knew he'd be suffering the second he allowed himself to work on homework late at night. Oh sure, you'd think spending an extra second on calculus would be fine, but then the minutes started ticking and soon 10:00 pm would turn to 3:00 am. Arthur's brain hurt, his eyes hurt, and for some reason even his hair hurt. God, he hated everything. Time to shove down the hate deep into some abyss of his mind, hidden behind the perfect mask of his "How can I help you today?" mantra. He just _had_ to work retail, Arthur thought, his mood bristling while he dressed.

Arthur dreaded walking to work. Not because his joints would snap like flimsy branches in the wind, or even that he had all the cold resistance of a shaved cat. It was the creeping suspicion that something terrible, something ruthless and cloaked in black would spring out from a corner. Or something morbid like that. It didn't help that a lone creaky trunk had been driving near him. It even seemed to be...following him.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. Surely enough, an almost faded beige truck was tailing him, its turn signal ready just as Arthur was about to round the corner. That was enough of that, the world didn't get to bullshit him more than once a day. He broke into a quick sprint, heart panicking as he held his breath. Needless to say, when he made it into the doors of the small grocery store, he'd never been happier to be at work.

"Fuck, you look like shit," Gilbert, his manager, said. "I thought you said you quit social drinking."

"I was studying!" Arthur hissed, still out of breath from his near death experience.

"Yea, yea whatever. You should get to the back and restock with Ivan."

Arthur rolled his eyes and made his way to the back where Ivan was already grabbing what looked like a crate of oranges.

"Lovely day isn't it?" Arthur said. Ivan only nodded in response. That was the beauty of Ivan. He kept to himself, meaning Arthur wouldn't have to trouble with meaningless banter and small talk. It would have been an average morning if Antonio and Francis hadn't run to the stockroom like they'd seen the antichrist.

"Old Man Jones!" they screeched in unison. "Art, Art, Old Man Jones' truck just pulled to the front!"

Arthur stiffened. Old Man Jones had always been the town legend. Well, sort of. More like the town mystery. He was a hermit that also happened to run the only lighthouse at the pier. That was pretty much all anyone knew about him. They said that he had lost his entire family to an age old curse and that losing them had driven him to madness. Old Man Jones even allegedly cut off his own hand in a fit of rage. Some say that if you get too close to his truck whenever he made his nightly rounds, you'd hear the screams of his murdered family rattling through the radio. But that was all gossip, and he knew for a fact that Gilbert was the one who made up the part about his hand being chopped off.

Right on cue, Gilbert ran in looking like he'd seen the ghost of his twice removed grandmother. "G-guys, Old Man Jones!"

"Honestly, you're all acting like children. I bet he's a respectable old fellow who just wants to pick up some groceries," Arthur said.

"But what if he's not?" Francis asked. "What if he's a horrible family killing murderer who's here to chop us up to bits?"

Arthur sighed. He wasn't awake enough to deal with Francis' overdramaticisms. "Well, someone's going to have to go out there. Customer service and all that."

Eerily, everyone turned to Arthur. Even Ivan had, and Ivan never participated in-anything.

"I hate all of you."

The second Old Man Jones entered through the double doors, the store seemed to drop five degrees. Although, Arthur had a feeling Francis or Antonio was messing with the thermostat to add "tension". Damn drama majors. They practically shoved him into the line of fire.

"How may I help you sir?" Arthur asked. He did his best just to smile and avert his eyes but damn was Old Man Jones interesting. He wore a long green coat covered in various dark and still drying stains. A thick scarf was wrapped around his face while a black beanie covered most of his head. The various possibilities and combinations of face disfigurations his mind conjured up made Arthur shiver. His only solace was the softness in Old Man Jones' face, like a weary sailor relieved to see the sun after a storm.

Old Man Jones mumbled something, but Arthur couldn't really make it out.

"Pardon?" he said.

Old Man Jones unwrapped his scarf and asked again. "Soup aisle?" he asked in a voice far younger than it should have been.

"Oh. Aisle seven," Arthur said. Now that the scarf was gone, there was no horrible moment of realization. There was no grotesque scar, no unhealed burn. It was just a man with a bit of an unruly beard. A small tuft of blonde stuck out from under his beanie. And yes, he had both his hands. For an old man though, Jones sure didn't look very...old.

"Great. Thanks." Off Young Man Jones went, leaving Arthur stumped and intrigued.

"Hey!" Gilbert whisper-shouted from the back. "What does he look like?"

"Absolutely hideous," he said, rolling his eyes. "A real spook."

"Really?" Antonio asked.

"Of course not! He looks like an average man. He's not even old."

"He still could have killed his family," Francis added.

Fair point. But before Arthur could add another smart retort or quip, Gilbert gestured wildly at the cash register. It seemed their town cryptid was ready to check out.

And so Arthur was blessed with scanning something akin to eighty cans of tomato soup and a single tube of toothpaste for a fidgety Jones.

"Did you find everything alright today?" he asked. Jones only nodded.

The strong silent type. Wonderful.

For a while, things were quiet. Until Young Man Jones cleared his throat.

"Were...were you guys talking about me earlier?" he asked. Jones looked down after he said it, almost embarrassed to bring it up.

Arthur was lost. Old Man Jones was hyped up to be this ruthless killer that ate children's fingers or something. And instead, here was this polite young man who just wanted to buy some soup. Granted, eighty cans of the same kind, but who was he to judge?

"A little, yes. You've become quite the legend in this town," he admitted.

"Really?" Jones asked. "How so?"

"The tales of Old Man Jones? No one's ever told you?" Arthur asked.

"Old? Yikes, I'm barely twenty-five," he chuckled. It was a nice laugh, deep and rolling like the sea.

"It's just an old wives tale. I'm sure some overzealous child just decided to make up a legend because you seemed mysterious," Arthur said. A faint "fuck you" was heard from the back of the store.

"Do you...want to help me with the bags?" he asked.

Maybe it had been because Arthur had missed his usual cup of liquid caffeine that morning. Maybe it was that subtle grit to Jones' voice, gentle and rolling like a calming storm. Maybe it was pure curiosity. Or maybe it was an amalgamation of all three.

"Sure," Arthur said. "I'd love to help you, Mr. Jones."

"Alfred. Just Alfred."

Arthur smiled, genuinely this time. "Nice to meet you, I'm Arthur."

The sky outside was a faded grey, almost like someone was unhappy with the shape of the clouds and decided to smudge them into one thick, foggy, lump. Alfred seemed preoccupied with something, muttering what sounded to be numbers under his breath.

Arthur was preoccupied with not dropping the several bags that he said he'd be happy to carry. To his chagrin, Arthur remembered just how out of shape he was, but he still felt guilty over all the gossip about Alfred. He was morally obligated to bear this burden.

"Oh hey," Alfred said suddenly, "Thanks a ton for carrying those. I don't really get much help these days."

"It's no problem," he said, trying not to sound strained. "Do you need help with anything else?"

"I think I'll be fine."

Arthur was about to wish him a good day and hand over the bags when Gilbert burst from the store. "Art! I just remembered we're supposed to fill this quota of customer friendliness and we just need one more representative to go out for a home delivery! Think you can help this gentleman out?"

Arthur grinned wide, doing his best not to murder Gilbert where he stood. The whole 'customer friendliness' was absolute bullshit. But he'd go along with it. He noticed how excited Alfred seemed at the prospect of more human interaction. "Of course! Anything for a customer."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow. "Really? That'd actually be amazing!"

Silently, Arthur mouthed 'I hate you so much,' to Gilbert while helping Alfred once more with the bags. As they neared the only vehicle in the parking lot, Arthur recognized the faded tan as the truck that followed him in the morning. Today was shaping up to be great.

Ignoring how absolutely horror-movie-esque climbing into the truck of the town's supposed homicidal killer was, Arthur was glad to have a moment to sit down. The leather upholstery of the truck was surprisingly comfortable, and it had that lovingly used smell. A small anchor charm hung from the rear-view-mirror, a detailed octopus tentacle wrapped over it.

The ignition startled him, whining and groaning like a banshee. Maybe this was what they meant by the screams of the undead haunting the truck?

"Damn battery, if it dies again I swear to God…" Alfred muttered. Luckily, it sputtered to life once more, enthusiastic pop music pouring from the speakers. In fact—

"Is that...is that Britney Spears?" Arthur asked.

"Yea? Why, did you want me to turn it off?" Alfred asked.

"No, no it's just that, everyone said Old Man Jones' truck had the voices of the damned. No offense, but there's nothing haunting about Britney Spears."

"Who said I was haunted?" Alfred laughed. "I don't think I've ever upset any ghosts. Then again, I doubt they'd tell me."

Arthur smiled. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with Alfred, legends be damned. He was an absolute pleasure and not to mention easy on the eyes. It was hard to imagine that people would be afraid of Alfred, beanie wearing, Britney Spears listening, stumbling, shy, Alfred.

And then they pulled up to the lighthouse.

A light misting of rain had splattered the truck windows, the structure towering over them. It seemed menacing, especially when the light would turn away, towards the sea. It looked hallow and without a soul. Arthur told himself to swallow his fears and help Alfred out with the bags. So he did, but not without shaking. But maybe that was from the rain that suddenly began to pour down.

"Man, it looks like a storm," Alfred said. He shook his head, "Man, Arthur I'm really sorry I asked you to come with me. You might be stuck here."

"Oh." Alone. With Alfred. Alfred who he didn't quite trust but wanted to. Alfred who could still be a killer behind those puppy dog eyes. "That's all right. I don't mind, really. It's their fault for sending me out here anyways."

Alfred gave him a small smile. "So...would you like to come in? I could get you something warm to drink or something."

"That'd be lovely."

It was a nice space, the lighthouse. Apparently it used to be just a normal house until someone back in Alfred's lineage volunteered to become the lighthouse keepers. What an odd thing to do, offer up your house. But commendable.

Alfred hung their coats up on something that looked like an anchor turned coat rack. The wood floors were surprisingly warm, but perhaps Arthur was just terribly cold. An albeit lumpy but sturdy looking sofa slumped against the wall, accompanied by a table piled with astronomy and sea life books. The walls were painted a downy grey-blue with little whales and seahorses hand drawn onto every available space. If you ignored the layout, it would have seemed like a normal house.

"Feel free to look around," Alfred said. "I'll go put these bags away."

Arthur thanked him and took a nice stroll into the hallway. Rows of family pictures cluttered the walls. Some had Alfred, some had a similar blonde boy. A twin, Arthur guessed. They looked absolutely darling. He couldn't help but wonder though, if Alfred did something to him?

No. That's absolutely rude. He invited Arthur into his house, offered him a drink, and he repays him by becoming just as big a conspiracy theorist as Gilbert!

Arthur decided to find the closest bathroom to splash a bit of cold water in his face. Unfortunately, he wasn't quite sure of the layout so he grabbed the nearest door. He wasn't welcomed with a sink and mirror.

Red. Buckets and buckets of red were everywhere. Red stained the walls, it smeared the tiled floor. The air was rank and heavy with red. The smell was putrid, and Arthur felt sick immediately. Was that an eye? Oh god, they were right. Alfred was a murderer and he had knowingly walked into a trap. If he could just—

"Arthur? What are you doing in here?"

Oh no. Arthur panicked he looked for a weapon, something, anything to keep Alfred away, but it was no use. He was at the mercy of Alfred. He hoped Gilbert felt sorry, he was going to haunt that annoying albino's ass for all eternity.

"Seriously Arthur, I wouldn't peg you as the fishing type of guy."

"Excuse me?" He squeaked.

"Well, yea, this is where we keep the chum. For fish."

"Oh." Of course Alfred wasn't a murder. What the hell was he thinking? Jesus, he needed to calm the hell down.

Arthur broke into a laugh, half hysterical, half relieved. "And here I thought you had this big secret! That you isolated yourself due to some odd family curse or that you murdered a family! I can't believe that I believed in Gilbert's stories."

Alfred stiffened. "I mean, I do have a secret," he admitted. "Though it's not murder or anythinglike that."

Arthur cocked his head. "What sort of secret, then?"

Alfred sighed. "Maybe it's just better if I show you."

Arthur let himself be led outside, grateful for the raincoat Alfred lent him. Together they walked to what seemed to be the end of the cliff, even last the little white fence that surrounded the lighthouse. There, at the very edge, a deep swirling vortex sat. It was dark and vicious, the waves moving erratically.

"You see that spot?" Alfred asked.

Arthur nodded, wondering what this would lead to.

"Down there is a giant squid. My family has been giving it chum every storm to keep it from devastating ships. Usually my brother Matthew would be here to help but—"

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," Arthur said.

"What? No! No, he's not dead. He just moved for college. My classes are online so I'm basically free to do this whenever."

"Are you sure there's a giant squid down there?" Arthur asked, trying to pretend that he didn't just assume Matthew died.

"Wanna see?" Alfred asked.

"Fuck yes."

Alfred dug in his pockets and pulled out a hunk of what looked like dried shrimp and crab claws. "Come on out Cthulhu," he shouted.

"You named the giant squid that your family appeases each storm, Cthulhu," Arthur teased.

Alfred shrugged. "It was either Betsy or Cthulhu, and Betsy doesn't exactly instill fear into the hearts of men."

"Oh don't be so sure," Arthur said. "I'm practically swooning from utter fright!"

Before Alfred could respond, a blood curdling screech erupted from the sea. Long tendrils of tree-thick squid tentacles squirmed and reaches for the cliffside. Alfred let go of his handful of seafood into what looked like a vacuous pit of teeth and beak.

Arthur gapped in shock. "You weren't kidding."

"Why would I be?" he asked.

In that moment, with the rain still assailing them, the waves spraying their faces and salt gathering on their hair, Arthur felt his chest flutter just the smallest bit when Alfred smiled that lovely shy smile.

"Guess I'm just paranoid."


End file.
